Haunted in Death (3 page)

“That’s not the first time you gave him money,“ Eve deduced.

“No. I’d give him a few hundred now and then. It kept him off my mother’s back, and we do okay here. The school, I mean. We do okay. And Lars, he understands.“

“But this time he went to your mother first.“

“Got to her before I could steer him off. Upsets her, you know? He figured he could sweet talk her out of a good chunk for this investment. Get rich deal – always a deal.“ Now Cliff scrubbed his hands over his face.

“They fight about it?“ Eve asked him.

“No. My mother’s done fighting with him. Been done a long time ago. And my father, he doesn’t argue. He… he cajoles. Basically, she told him to come by again when Hell froze over. So he settled for me, on the sly, and the five hundred. He said he’d be in touch when the ball got rolling, but that was just another line. Didn’t matter. It was only five. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.“

“I can’t tell you, Mr. Gill. Why did you remove Hopkins from your legal name?“

“This place – Gill School of Dance. My mother.“ He lifted his shoulder, looked a little abashed. “And well, it’s got a rep. Hopkins. It’s just bad luck.“

Three

Eve wasn’t surprised MD Morris had snagged Hopkins. Multiple gunshot wounds had to be a happy song and dance for a medical examiner. An interesting change of pace from the stabbings, the bludgeonings, strangulations and overdoses.

Morris, resplendent in a bronze-toned suit under his clear protective cape, his long dark hair in a shining tail, stood over the body with a sunny smile for Eve.

“You send me the most interesting things.“

“We do what we can,“ Eve said. “What can you tell me I don’t already know?“

“Members of one family of the fruit fly are called peacocks because they strut on the fruit.“

“Huh. I’ll file that one. Let’s be more specific. What can you tell me about our dead guy?“

“The first four wounds – chest – and the leg wound – fifth – could have been repaired with timely medical intervention. The next severed the spine, the seventh damaged the kidney. Number eight was a slight wound, meaty part of the shoulder. But he was dead by then. The final, close contact, entered the brain, which had already closed down shop.“

He gestured to his wall screen, and called up a program. “The first bullets entered at a near level angle.“ Morris continued as the graphics played out on-screen. “You see, the computer suggested, and I concur, that the assailant fired four times, rapidly, hitting body mass. The victim fell after the fourth shot.“

Eve studied the reenactment as Morris did, noting the graphic of the victim took the first two shots standing, the second two slightly hunched forward in the beginning of a fall.

“Big guy,“ Peabody commented. “Stumbles back a little, but keeps his feet for the first couple shots. I’ve only seen training and entertainment vids with gun death,“ she added. “I’d have thought the first shot would slap him down.“

“His size, the shock of the impact,“ Morris said, “and the rapidity of fire would have contributed to the delay in his fall. Again, from the angles by which the bullets entered the body, it’s likely he stumbled back, then lurched forward slightly, then went down – knee, heels of the hand taking the brunt of the fall.“

He turned to Eve. “Your report indicated that the blood pattern showed the victim tried to crawl or pull himself away across the floor.“

“That’d be right.“

“As he did, the assailant followed, firing over and down, according to the angle of the wounds in the back, leg, shoulder.“

Eyes narrowed now, Eve studied the computer-generated replay. “Stalking him, firing while he’s down. Bleeding, crawling. You ever shoot a gun, Morris?“

“Actually, no.“

“I have,“ she continued. “Feels interesting in your hand. Gives this little kick when it fires. Makes you part of it, that little jolt. Runs through you. I’m betting the killer was juiced on that. The jolt, the
bang!
Gotta be juiced to put more missiles into a guy who’s crawling away, leaving his blood smeared on the floor.“

“People always find creative and ugly ways to kill. I’d have said using a gun makes the kill less personal. But it doesn’t feel that way in this case.“

She nodded. “Yeah, this was personal, almost intimate. The ninth shot in particular.“

“For the head shot, the victim – who as you say had considerable girth – had to be shoved or rolled over. At that time, the gun was pressed to the forehead. There’s not only burning and residue, but a circular bruising pattern. When I’m able to compare it, I’m betting my share that it matches the dimensions of the gun barrel. The killer pressed the gun down into the forehead before he fired.“

“See how you like
that,
you bastard,“ Eve murmured.

“Yes, indeed. Other than being riddled with bullets, your vic was in reasonably good health, despite being about twenty pounds overweight. He dyed his hair, had an eye and chin tuck within the last five years. He’d last eaten about two hours prior to death. Soy chips, sour pickles, processed cheese, washed down with domestic beer.“

“The bullets?“

“On their way to the lab. I ran them through my system first. Nine millimeter.“ Morris switched programs so that images of the spent bullets he’d recovered came on screen.

“Man, it messes them up, doesn’t it?“

“It doesn’t do tidy work on flesh, bone and organ either. The vic had no gunpowder residue on his hands, no defensive wounds. Bruising on the left knee, which would have been inflicted when he fell. As well as some scraping on the heels of both hands, consistent with the fall on the floor surface.“

“So he didn’t fight back, or have the chance to. Didn’t turn away.“ She angled her own body as if preparing for flight. “No indication he tried to run when and if he saw the gun.“

“That’s not what his body tells me.“

Nor was it what it had told her on scene.

“A guy doesn’t usually snack on chips and pickles if he’s nervous or worried,“ Peabody put in. “Run of his entertainment unit showed he last viewed a soft porn vid about the time he’d have had the nibbles. This meet didn’t have him sweating.“

“Somebody he knew and figured he could handle,“ Eve agreed. She looked at the body again. “Guess he was dead wrong about that one.“

“Number Twelve,“ Morris said as Eve turned to go.

“That’s right.“

“So the legend of Bobbie Bray comes to a close.“

“That would be the missing woman, presumed dead.“

“It would. Gorgeous creature, Bobbie, with the voice of a tormented angel.“

“If you remember Bobbie Bray, you’re looking damn good for your age, Morris.“

He flashed that smile again. “There are thousands of Web sites devoted to her, and a substantial cult following. Beautiful woman with her star just starting to rise vanishes. Poof! Of course, sightings of her continued for decades after. And talk of her ghost haunting Number Twelve continues even today. Cold spots, apparitions, music coming from thin air. You get any of that?“

Eve thought of the snatch of song, the deep chill. “What I’ve got, potentially, are her bones. They’re real enough.“

“I’ll be working on them with the forensic anthropologist at the lab.“ Morris’s smile stayed sunny. “Can’t wait to get my hands on her.“

Back at Central, Eve sat in her office to reconstruct Hopkins’s last day. She’d verified his lunch meeting with a couple of local movers and shakers who were both alibied tight for the time in question. A deeper check of his financial showed a sporadic income over the past year from a shop called Bygones, with the last deposit mid-December.

“Still skimming it close, Rad. How the hell were you going to pay for the rehab? Expecting a windfall, maybe? What were you supposed to bring to Number Twelve last night?“

Gets the call on his pocket ‘link,she mused.
Deliberately spooky. But he doesn’t panic. Sits around, has a snack, watches some light porn.

She sat back at her desk, closed her eyes. The security disc from Hopkins’s building showed him leaving at 1:35. Alone. Looked like he was whistling a tune, Eve recalled. Not a care in the world. Not carrying anything. No briefcase, no package, no bag.

“Yo.“

Eve opened her eyes and looked at Feeney. The EDD captain was comfortably rumpled, his wiry ginger hair exploding around his hangdog face. “Whatcha got?“

“More what you’ve got,“ he said and stepped into the office. “Number Twelve.“

“Jeez, why does everybody keep saying that? Like it was its own country.“

“Practically is. Hop Hopkins, Bobbie Bray, Andy Warhol, Mick Jagger.“ For a moment, Feeney looked like a devotee at a sacred altar. “Christ, Dallas, what a place it must’ve been when it was still rocking.“

“It’s a dump now.“

“Cursed,“ he said, so casually she blinked.

“Get out. You serious?“

“As a steak dinner. Found bricked-up bones, didn’t you? And a body, antique gun, diamonds. Stuff legends are made of. And it gets better.“

“Oh yeah?“

He held up a disc. “Ran your vic’s last incoming transmission and the nine-one-one, and for the hell of it, did a voice-print on both. Same voice on both. Guess whose it is?“

“Bobbie Bray’s.“

“Hey.“ He actually pouted.

“Has to figure. The killer did the computer-generated deal, used Bray’s voice, probably pieced together from old media interviews and such. Unless you’re going to sit there and tell me you think it was a voice from, you know, beyond the grave.“

He pokered up. “I’m keeping an open mind.“

“You do that. Were you able to dig up any old transmissions?“

He held up a second disc. “Dug them out, last two weeks. You’re going to find lots of grease. Guy was working it, trying to pump up some financing. Same on the home unit. Some calls out for food, a couple to a licensed companion service. Couple more back and forth to some place called Bygones.“

“Yeah, I’m going to check that out. Looks like he was selling off his stuff.“

“You know, he probably had some original art from his grandfather’s era. Music posters, photographs, memorabilia.“

Considering, Eve cocked her head. “Enough to buy Number Twelve, then finance the rehab?“

“You never know what people’ll pay. Got your finger pointed at anyone?“

“Talked to one of his exes, and a son. They don’t pop for me, but I’m keeping an open mind. Going through some business associates, potential backers, other exes. No current lady friend, or recently dumped, that I can find. Fact is, the guy comes off as a little sleazy, a little slippery, but mostly harmless. A fuck-up who talked big. Got no motive at this point, except a mysterious something he may or may not have taken with him to Number Twelve.“

She eased back. “Big guy. He was a big guy. Easy for a woman to take him down if she’s got access to a gun, reasonable knowledge of how it works. Second ex-wife is the kind who holds a grudge, hence my open mind. I’ve got Peabody trying to run the weapon.“

“The thing is,“ Peabody told her, “it’s really old. A hundred years back, a handgun didn’t have to be registered on purchase, not in every state, and depending on how it was bought. This one’s definitely from the Hop Hopkins/Bobbie Bray era. They discontinued this model in the Nineteen-eighties. I’ve got the list of owners with collector’s licenses in the state of New York who own that make and model, but…“

“It’s not going to be there. Not when it was deliberately planted on the scene. The killer wanted it found, identified. Lab comes through, we should know tomorrow if the same gun was used to kill Hopkins and our surprise guest.“

She considered for a moment, then pushed away from her desk. “Okay, I’m going to go by the lab, give them a little kick in the ass.“

“Always entertaining.“

“Yeah, I make my own fun. After, I’m going by this collectibles place, scope it out. It’s uptown, so I’ll work from home after. I’ve got Feeney’s list of transmissions. You want to take that? Check out the calls, the callers?“

“I’m your girl.“

Dick Berenski, the chief lab tech, was known as Dickhead for good reason. But besides being one, he was also a genius in his field. Generally, Eve handled him with bribes, insults or outright threats. But with her current case, none were necessary.

“Dallas!“ He all but sang her name.

“Don’t grin at me like that.“ She gave a little shudder. “It’s scary.“

“You’ve brought me not one but two beauties. I’m going to be writing these up for the trade journals and be the fair-haired boy for the next ten freaking years.“

“Just tell me what you’ve got.“

He scooted on his stool, and tapped his long, skinny fingers over a comp screen. He continued to grin out of his strangely egg-shaped head.

“Got my bone guy working with Morris with me running the show. You got yourself a female, between the age of twenty and twenty-five. Bobbie Bray was twenty twenty-three when she poofed. Caucasian, five-foot-five, about a hundred and fifteen pounds, same height and weight on Bobbie’s ID at the time of her disappearance. Broken tibia, about the age of twelve. Healed well. Gonna wanna see if we can access any medical records on Bobbie to match the bone break. Got my forensic sculptor working on the face. Bobbie Bray, son of a bitch.“

“Another fan.“

“Shit yeah. That skirt was
hot.
Got your cause of death, single gunshot wound to the forehead. Spent bullet retrieved from inside the skull matches the caliber used on your other vic. Ballistics confirms both were fired from the weapon recovered from the scene. Same gun used, about eighty-five years apart. It’s beautiful.“

“I bet the killer thinks so, too.“

Sarcasm flew over Dickhead like a puffy white cloud in a sunny blue sky. “Weapon was cleaned and oiled. Really shined it up. But…“

He grinned again, tapped again. “What you’re looking at here is dust. Brick dust, drywall dust. Samples the sweepers took from the secondary crime scene. And here? Traces of dust found inside the weapon. Perfect match.“

“Indicating that the gun was bricked up with the body.“

“Guess Bobbie got tired of haunting the place and decided to take a more active role.“

And that, Eve determined, didn’t warrant even sarcasm as a response. “Shoot the reports to my home and office units, copy to Peabody’s. Your sculptor gets an image, I want to see it.“

She headed out again, pulling out her ‘link as it beeped. “Dallas.“

“Arrest any ghosts lately?“

“No. And I’m not planning on it. Why aren’t you in a meeting about world domination?“

“Just stepped out,“ Roarke told her. “My curiosity’s been nipping at me all day. Any leads?“

“Leads might be a strong word. I have avenues. I’m heading to one now. The vic was selling off his stuff – antique popular culture stuff, I gather – to some place uptown. I’m going to check it out.“

“What’s the address?“

“Why?“

“I’ll meet you. I’ll be your expert consultant on antiques and popular culture. You can pay my fee with food and sex.“

“It’s going to be pizza, and I think I’ve got a long line to credit on the sex.“

But she gave him the address.

After ending the transmission, she called the collectibles shop to tell the proprietor to stay open and available. On a hunch, she asked if they carried any Bobbie Bray memorabilia.